Wow! I was looking through my old emails and found a short story I had worked on for a creative writing class. So nostalgic. The story was masterminded by my friend JL and executed and reimagined by me. Sorta like a minor collaboration.
Project Writer
“I learned this, at least, by my experiment;
that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams,
and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined,
he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.”
from the “Conclusion” to Walden, Henry David Thoreau
The rain gnawed on the skin of the passerby who were unwilling to give up the day’s worth of time, fighting against the wailing wind with claws that gripped tightly onto the skin, making it hang loosely on bones like sticks to a wavering flag. The rain continued to storm consistently and gloomily, seeping between the small gaps between the plastic coverings that were supported by four weak pillars; they were made of wood, unsustainable of immense weight, vulnerable and unreliable. Like the wooden pillars of feebleness, a man stood by the side of the vending truck, observing the swarms of gluttonous people, feasting ceaselessly on colorful sustenance. Jake’s lucid but shadowy brown eyes were hidden by the dangling strands of black bangs; he looked as though the rain had eaten him alive and raw, the sheer apathetic and mind-numbing glare displayed on his countenance was far too much for passerby to grasp. They looked away as though this short stocky man, did not exist at all; in fact, he had never existed.
7 o’clock.
An end to a beginning, the clock ticked timelessly, tick tock, tock tick. Rolling down his sleeves, Jake greeted his coworkers with a small wave. He grabbed his black backpack and stuffed it with documents before leaving the office. He took each step with hesitation, his mind wavering between different thoughts. It has been seven months since his manager had quit, abruptly, silently, invisibly, and indifferently. In the printing office where hundreds of articles fly across the room, a million of thoughts investigated and abused, and staffs engaged in mind games every day, there was no room left to think of the old manager. They would say, “John was a nice guy,” as though those words actually meant something.
Taking the elevator down to the lobby, Jake was reminded of the times when John said, “Oh shit, it’s raining.” He didn’t place any significance on those words; why would it matter to anyone working indoor whether it was raining or snowing? Even if there were a blizzard, they were still required to work, for tomorrow’s newspaper still needed to be printed. Now it all seemed to make sense.
“Fourth floor please,” a woman with blond hair said as she entered.
She was carrying her small black purse along with an orange envelope. Jake gave a weak smile and pressed the button.
“Thank you,” she said politely.
“No problem,” Jake said.
His hands were sweating profusely as he held onto his black umbrella. Today was the day, he had convinced himself. He must gather enough courage to confront his ex-manager. To tell him how much they needed him back at the office, how everyone was falling apart, and how dreams were not part of reality.
The woman offered him a tissue.
“Here, take it,” she said with a smile.
“Uh…thanks.”
He took it and smiled weakly. Her display of kindness made him even more nervous. He didn’t deserve this; he deserves to be scorned.
Ding.
The elevator door opened and she walked out slowly, turning back to inquire him with her eyes whether he would be okay or not. He nodded. After she left the elevator, he clicked the close button, persistently as though it would take him to his destination of the day.
She had sharp olive colored eyes that were as sly as a cat’s.
—
Olive, the color of a muddy mixture of green and brown; the color of the swampy field that one refuses to enter especially on a rainy day. The trees covered the muddiness with their shadows; always hiding but never intruding. In the midst of this chaotic nature was a cottage, hidden under the canopy of trees, known only to a selected few.
It was an hour away by car to the urban area; cosmopolitan and trendy with high skyscrapers, literally reaching out to the sky with its outstretched height. The owner of the cottage was well aware of it; he could live a life intact with nature at night and an urban life in the morning. The wooden cabinets in the kitchen of the house contained boxes of instant cookie, cake and other dessert mix. Pillsbury doughboy with his protruding tummy smiled enthusiastically as though his sweets would bring happiness to everyone who ate them.
At six am in the morning, a hand emerged to take a few boxes out. John didn’t know how to make dessert from scratch but he was the vendor of a transportable cafe. Preparation was required each afternoon at 1PM so he had time to bake the instant goods. A 17x57x10mm digital recorder was carefully and meticulously attached to a table each day (chose randomly); it was essential to the business’s purpose. It was hidden; a device so sensitive that a soft sigh would be enough to activate the recording.
After the baked goods were made, they were put into plastic containers, then placed inside the van. John’s employees would arrive at the location listed on the schedule at about 7PM. Usually they arrived in suits and shirts, formal clothing that were rarely seen on vendors. At precisely 5:30PM, today’s destination was 105 Fort street, near the harbor.
—
The wind held its hesitation as Jake walked along Fort street. His office was a few blocks away; he could still see it from a distance; it was his retreat, he could always head back like he had so many times. Besides the rain was suddenly pouring, a better reason to head home and enjoy the silence held in four walls. Or he could always turn on the box full of meaningless and boisterous noise.
It took effort to hold onto his umbrella; his hands were trembling, the pain that tugged at his heart was excruciating, devouring his heart as it moved on swiftly to his organs. He used one hand to clutch onto his shirt as sweat covered his forehead. The truck was there already. The plastic covering protected the rain against the customers who sat beneath it; wooden tables and chairs lined up neatly in the small lot. It was an empty area near the broad walk by the sea.
Closing up his umbrella, Jack hid behind the vending truck like he had so many other times. He observed the activities; same as always, gluttons of all classes, consuming baked goods with a cup of tea and their pinky sticking out elegantly. Why did his ex-manager give up his job to be a full time vendor? No one had ever noticed Jake ; he took a peek at the white-board which announced the schedule of the truck hanging loosely onto a nail hammered onto the side of the truck. Monday, Fort Street. Tuesday, Harbor Bay.
Jake could choose any of the other days to come again. He didn’t have to confront John now. But the olive green eyes were staring at him intensely. She stared at him and walked towards him, her blond hair fluttering in the air like a silk cloth drenched in water, weighed down by the rain.
“Hey, it’s you again,” she said.
Her voice was soft and she let out a smile.
“Hi…”
“How did you find out about this place?”
How did she find out about him? No one had ever noticed him hiding near the truck.
“I saw your umbrella,” she said as though she had read his mind, “so I kinda thought it was you.”
He looked at his umbrella; there was nothing special about it, it was a banal, boring black umbrella with a long handle.
“I uh…just happened to pass by,” Jake said.
He wanted to leave, his heart beats were racing against the droplets of rain. Trickling rapidly. Drenching. Soaking. Seeping. Falling.
“Since you’re here, you might as well try their stuff. Their cakes are delicious. C’mon,” she said.
He realized he didn’t even know her name as she grabbed onto his hand and lead him to one of the tables. She smiled vibrantly, her crimson lips against the dim light of the place. And her olive green eyes, staring at him as though there was an impenetrable void in his dark brown eyes.
The customers were not that talkative today. John observed them as he served them with coffee and his instant baked goods. There was a dark lurking figure among them, he could almost feel its presence; but it was nothing more than intuition.
It didn’t matter. He looked at the table to the far right; the one closest to his truck. That was the table where he had installed the recording device earlier. He couldn’t wait until the clock finally strikes 10PM which would the end of the night. Only one worker had come to work today. He had started with a staff of ten enthusiastic people, slowly, they had been decreasing. One by one, they came less and less as though dreams weren’t enough to sustain them. Maybe this whole project was a failure, Jake thought. No. He had to continue on. The sight of the couple talking by the table he had installed the device motivated him; as long as they were talking, there would be more stories to be created, more plots to be made, and more characters to write about.
“Here you go,” the waiter said as he placed two cups of coffee and a plate of cookies onto the table.
“Thanks,” she said.
She smiled like the first time Jake had seen her smile. The waiter nodded and walked off. From his angle, Jake could see John. He was inside the truck preparing the orders. Jake was lucky John wasn’t the one serving today, he could still wait another day. He was also lucky her back had hidden him from John’s view.
“Oh, it was rude of me. I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Becky,” she said.
“Uh…Jake.”
“Do you work at the printing department?” she asked as she took a sip of her coffee.
“Yeah.”
There was an awkward silence.
“You know this place has been around for a year now. It’s kinda weird how they always have staff dressed in suits and whatnot, some of the faces even looked familiar,” Becky said.
“What do you mean familiar?” Jake asked.
Now that she mentioned it, he remembered the staff declining in number; they were down to two now including his ex-manager. He added a cube of sugar into his coffee.
She turned to look around, checking to see if the waiter was nearby.
“I mean, they look like they could be anyone from our building. Yet why would they work here? Besides, the pay must be crummy. This place closes early too.”
“Yeah at 10PM,” he said.
It slipped; he didn’t mean to say it.
“So this isn’t your first time here?” she said with a smirk of victory.
Caught.
“Uh…I guess-”
“I have actually seen you here a few times. Last time it was raining. You looked like you wanted to be alone so I just left you there.”
Becky had shifted her attention to him; trying to read him again with her eyes. Jake averted his eyes and looked at his coffee. It was as dark as a pit.
“Spill it,” she whispered as she leaned closer to Jake.
Her scent was enrapturing, a mix of cherry blossom and jasmine. He felt as though all the tension and burden he had carried with him from the time his ex-manager left to now were absorbed by her presence. He couldn’t explain the reason logically, but he must keep his head on his shoulders.
“It’s nothing.”
She was smarter than that.
“It can’t be nothing. You’ve been staring at John for a while. Don’t tell me you’re gay!”
“Uh…no.”
“Should I tell him-”
She was about to stand up but Jake grabbed her hand. He wasn’t ready. He would never be ready. Who was he to criticize his ex-manager’s way of living, who was he to prod; John didn’t need a reason.
“Stay.”
“I’m waiting,” she said with a smile.
Victory. Another one. 2:0.
“John was my ex-manager. He quit his job seven months ago, out of nowhere. Through contacts with one of his friend, I found out he has been working as a food vendor. Our office acted as though he has never existed but he took care of me when I first got the job.”
“So you think it’s weird he left?”
“Not weird. He usually does things for a reason, I just don’t understand.”
She stirred her coffee after adding a lot of cream and sugar. “Say, Jake, do you have any dreams?”
“Such as…?”
He was startled by her question.
“Like something you wanted to do as a kid? Like an astronaut, firefighter, a hero? I don’t know.”
Her eyes were dreamy, like her reverie had taken over and she wasn’t actually there.
“I guess I wanted to be a writer,” Jake said.
“What stopped you?” Becky asked.
“My confidence.”
“Are you not a good writer?”
This was getting nowhere. Jake cannot understand how this was connected to John the vendor.
“Does it matter? Why do you ask anyway?”
“No reasons. Maybe that’s the answer to his shop!”
She didn’t know John. She probably had never actually talked to the guy, Jake thought. There was no way in the world John would do something without a reason. How naive.
Maybe he was naïve, John thought. Staring at the empty paper cups, he looked at his customers. The rain didn’t stop, and the people kept coming to his stall of ten tables and forty chairs. It was a business that met its ends; he made enough to sustain it but the routine was getting boring. Once in a while a good story or two would emerge, mainly derived from the conversations he recorded of his customers.
John had came up with the idea a year ago; Project Writer. It seemed clever at first, but the moment he had taken action in order to execute the project, it seemed fruitless and naïve.
From a book club he had joined years ago, he had gathered ten members. They all had different day jobs, working from 9 to 5. Sharing the love for books, they were also amateur writers who felt they were not creative enough to make a story uniquely theirs. They felt like they didn’t have the language, the crafts, the disciplines nor the motivation to write a story.
John didn’t remember much of Edgar Allen Poe’s The Premature Burial, but he remembered what was imparted. “The truth is stranger than fiction.” Based on that philosophy, the members in the book club agreed that the gathering of information from random people would have made provocative stories. They decided to put a recording device somewhere hidden; they decided they could work after their day job for three hours. Each day, they would move to a new location so there would be new people in a different environment; they needed fresh voices and ideas. Sunday would be their day off where they’d gather all the recording, three hours per day, play it and make a story from it.
John even quit his job for this dream.
It wasn’t entirely for this dream, he had hated his job. The intense stress from his bosses who would put the weight of responsibility onto him while they enjoyed the song of praises; it didn’t bother him that he wasn’t praised for his hard work, but it bothered him he wasn’t getting a raise for the work he had been doing. Since John didn’t have to pay the other writers he had enough to sustain his life in the cottage and his basic necessities. He quit his job without any hesitation.
“Thanks Leon,” John said to his friend as he brought an empty plate and two cups over.
Leon smiled weakly. He looked tired.
“No problem.”
The table to the right was empty. It was almost 10PM.
“Closing time, I can handle this myself,” John said.
“Nah, Project Writer. We’re a team even if there’s only two of us,” Leon said.
He was the first one to know about John’s idea and had supported him ever since. Leon was an aspiring writer; he was anxious to hear the recording each day after work even if it were a long and tiring day.
Folding up the chairs and table and packing them into the truck, John would be surprised when they get into the truck to hear the content of the recording today.
It was a story of his life and the mysteries of Project Writer.
nanansa 